


Waking Dream

by Fyre



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Dark, Canonical Character Death, Cutting, Graphic Self-Harm, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Self-harming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-26
Updated: 2012-12-26
Packaged: 2017-11-22 13:21:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/610265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In another lifetime, the Evil Queen promised Rumpelstiltskin comfort and wealth, but she never promised him peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waking Dream

**Author's Note:**

> This story has been sitting in my hind-brain since 28th June 2012. The night I saw California Solo. It would not leave. I have tried exorcising it on and off for nearly 6 months, but in the end, I had no choice but to write it.

_He watched for her from the window._

_It wasn’t that he didn’t trust her, but she was out there, mixing with God knew who, and she was late. It was dark already when the car pulled up. Not the car he expected. Large and black and gleaming._

_She got out, and she was smiling, and that made him clench his fist against the window frame._

_Of all the people for her to socialise with, it had to be that one._

_He heard her open the front door and shut it quietly. He heard her go to the kitchen. He heard her boiling the kettle. He heard her approach the stairs and he waited for her on the landing halfway up._

_She stopped, startled, as his shadow fell across her. “Did I wake you?”_

_“Oh no, dearie,” he said. “I was awake. I was waiting.”_

_She smiled guilelessly, as if she hadn’t just been fraternising with his rival. “You didn’t need to do that,” she said. “I’m home now.”_

_“So I see,” he said, watching her guardedly. She approached him and leaned closer to kiss his cheek and he felt an unreasonable surge of anger. Why would she come back to him if not to worm information out of him for her new friend?_

_He caught her by the arms, squeezing cruelly._

_“Alex!” she exclaimed, startled._

_“Don’t play me for the fool, dearie,” he snarled. “It doesn’t become you. I know you’re working for her now.”_

_“Don’t be ridiculous!” she exclaimed, tea splashing over the edge of the cup in her hand. She pushed against his arms. “I was walking home and she offered me a lift!”_

_“A lift! From your friend the Mayor!” He shook her again, harder. “Did she approach you or is this you, dearie? Is this you getting under my skin and giving her all the information she needs to keep me in check?”_

_“Alex!” She wasn’t afraid, even when he knew he was hurting her, even when she was shaking in his grip. “Alex, you know I love you!”_

_“Do I?” he demanded savagely. “Do I? Pretty thing like you? Grim old monster like me? I don’t think so!”_

_She stared at him then tried to lunge closer to hold onto him. He threw her back from him as if burned, and let go. He let her go. He let her go and she fell. He saw her expression change from grief to shock to despair and in the briefest instant to fear as her hands grasped at empty air._

_It was only one small flight. It was only that. Barely anything at all._

_But the back of her head hit the floor of the hall and he heard the bones in her neck crackle like kindling, echoed by the clatter of the cup as it tumbled from her hand. Blue eyes stared blindly at the ceiling._

_She fell._

_She died._

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Alexander Gold sat bolt upright in bed, gasping.

The nightmare was the same every night it got close to the anniversary. He groped blindly in his bedside cabinet for the bottle of Scotch he kept there, his hands fumbling with the lid, and he drank it straight from the bottle.

Every day, it felt like only days since the accident, but it was years now. The anniversary always made things worse. He didn’t know why he stayed in the same house, the house where she had breathed her last, but he couldn’t leave. It was as if leaving would sever the last link he had with the one woman he had ever loved.

They never charged him.

It was an accident, after all.

Moe French had banned him from the funeral, and had tried to beat the hell out of him when he dared to lay flowers at the grave. She was gone and she wasn’t coming back, and it was all his own fault. He let her go.

Gold took another mouthful from the bottle, waiting desperately for the gentle numbing that would follow. 

The people of Storybrooke knew he was ruthless and hard-hearted and callous. None of them knew he cared for someone. No one believed that she had loved him for all his foibles and failings and ill-temper. They had called her a gold-digger, but only in whispers now. Dying at the hands of the man who was meant to protect her wasn’t part of the gold-digging label.

He pressed his eyes shut, but that didn’t help.

She lay at the bottom of the stairs, light from the streetlamp shining through the coloured panels in the front door, making her death-white face a rainbow. Her eyes were open. They were open and staring blankly.

Gold gasped, stumbling from the bed, leaning heavily on his cane.

He barely reached the bathroom in time, bringing up all the alcohol he had just consumed. 

He shivered, leaning back against the side of the bath, his throat burning. It would have been easier to forget if he left Storybrooke, if he took everything and went away, but he couldn’t. All he had left of her was in this house, even if it was where she died.

He ran a trembling hand over his face.

It was two days until the anniversary. It felt like only yesterday. He wouldn’t sleep, he knew, not undisturbed. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the look in her face, the look of pained disbelief as he let her go. Every time he switched off the lights and lay in the silence, he heard the crack of bones shattering.

It took all his strength to get to his feet and limp down the stairs, trying not to look at the floor of the hall and see the ghost of her lying there, broken, dead. 

It was impossible. 

It was the last time he had seen her. 

It had made his knee scream, kneeling beside her, holding her, trying to bring her back, and that was where they had found him. That was the last time he had held her in his arms, and the Sheriff had been forced to drag him back, screaming and swearing and finally falling apart as people filled his home and the woman who had been Isabelle, but now was ‘the victim’ was carried away from him, never to be seen again. 

Bile rose in his throat as he picked his way down the stairs and across the hall. It burned and he felt sick with it. His hands were trembling in earnest when he reached the liquor cabinet, and the neck of the bottle - he wasn’t sure what bottle it was - rattled against the rim of the glass.

Too many of the bottles were too close to empty now.

It seemed to happen much more regularly than it used to.

He could almost remember a day when he didn’t need to drink something to keep the nightmares at bay. He didn’t know what was worse: that he let her go or that she died with words of love still on her lips. 

He pressed his forefinger and thumb to his eyelids, as if making them ache would stop the tears that always threatened. He didn’t want to weep. He didn’t deserve the luxury of grief, not when it was his fault, all his fault. 

He carried the bottle and glass one handed, and retreated to one of the armchairs, the one that didn’t face the hall. He didn’t need to see the stairs, the hallway, that place, to remember what he had done.

The alcohol did its work.

He was woken by the daylight breaking through the window, and raised a hand to shield his eyes. His head ached, as it always did, and he reached blindly for the bottle. There was only enough for half a glass left, but it sufficed. He drained it, then made his way slowly back to his bedroom, showering, shaving and dressing with care.

It was one thing to be drunk.

It was another entirely to let it show.

Years of practise meant he could walk upright, using his cane only a little more than necessary. He could steady his hands, even if meant his arms ached later in the day. He could focus if he had tasks at hand.

The drinking was only when he was done for the day, when he was at home, when he had nothing else to think about but the sound of bones.

He went to the shop, dealt with what he could there, and with the evening, went to collect the rent. People could avoid him during the day. Work, they said. Jobs. Things that kept them out of the house. Not so in the evenings. He knocked on doors, took bills, smiled like he was enjoying it as he tucked wad after wad of notes into his pocket.

Granny’s Inn was the last stop at the end of a long day, and for once, there was a guest at the counter.

“Swan,” she said. “Emma Swan.”

Alexander steadied himself on the cane. No. Not Alexander. Something else. It was flickering on the edge of his senses. He remembered a name. He remembered a cell, a prison, waiting, waiting waiting for a curse.

“Emma,” he said, remembering. “What a lovely name.”

The woman turned, looking at him in bemusement. “Thanks.”

Emma. Emma Swan. The curse-breaker. The Saviour. The child. The child of Snow and Charming. The memories were returning like a piece of paper catching alight, and he could feel them licking across his mind.

He turned his attention to Granny.

“It’s all there,” she said warily, holding out a roll of notes. Granny. Widow Lucas. The wolf-woman and her wolf-grandchild. 

“Yes, of course,” he murmured, his head feeling clearer for the first time in what had to be twenty-eight years. He nodded to Emma as he turned back towards the door. “You enjoy your stay, Emma.”

He managed to get down the flight of steps before the mind of Alexander Gold was entirely consumed by Rumpelstiltskin.

Isabelle became Belle, an affair became true love itself, the stairs became a tower, but one thing remained true: she died because he let her go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Everything started changing with the Saviour’s arrival.

Rumpelstiltskin knew it would, but he hadn’t been prepared for the state he was in when his memory returned. He looked at himself in the mirror, gaunt, hollow-faced, his eyes bloodshot from years of drinking away his memories. It didn’t matter that they had been cursed. Repeat the same action over and over for cursed days and nights, and the result will be the same.

Regina had promised comfort.

She had given comfort. He had an estate, wealth, reputation.

She simply failed to mention that she would also give him memories, and the inability to cope with the guilt of them. Regina never knew about Bae. He had made damned sure of that. But she had poked and prodded at his memories until the guilt of all his past sins had suffocated him.

He ran a hand over his face. It was amazing that Alexander Gold had remained sane at all.

Rumpelstiltskin made his way down into the house. Even though the memories weren’t his, he hesitated on the stairs. It was so clear. Year after year of the same nightmare repeating in his mind’s eye: his hands pushing her away, her falling back, the look in her eyes so like the look when he told her to leave, the cup bouncing from her hand and chipping on the hardwood floor.

He closed his eyes, swallowed hard, and continued down the staircase.

Regina couldn’t have known about Bae. She couldn’t have known the guilt that nested in his mind over letting someone else go. She couldn’t have known how potent and savage and fierce that pain had burned, but she had used it as if she did.

He needed a drink.

That had been his refuge before the curse.

Now, it was in his blood, and he couldn’t think straight. The only thing in his mind was that he needed a drink. Something strong enough to push the thoughts back, but Alexander Gold’s voice was just an echo now, and no matter how much he wanted that oblivion, Rumpelstiltskin knew he had to keep his head clear.

This was more than a matter of playing town politics or being the landlord.

The curse was on the verge of being broken, and that was all well and good, but he needed to be conscious and aware. If anything started to go wrong, he had to be there to set it back on track. Belle… Belle was gone, but he still had the chance to find Bae, and for that, he needed a clear head.

A clean head.

He stopped at the bottom of the stairs. Where she had fallen in his memories. He could still see her, as if it had been real, lying at his feet, her eyes wide and unseeing. What made it worse was knowing that Belle, his Belle, had not just fallen down a staircase. A tower. She threw herself from the tower. She died.

The crack of the bones in Storybrooke would be nothing compared to the crack of bones in the forest. A tower. A tall tower. There might have been trees and plants to break her fall, but just as twelve stairs could be fatal, how much more so would a fall from a tower?

Belle swam in his memories and he could picture it all clear as day. She was wearing the blue dress, the one she wore when she walked out of the door, and he was standing on a balcony at the top of the tower. She looked back at him, just for a moment, then leapt, even as he ran forward to stop her. He saw the expression on her face, the brief flicker of fear that he had seen on the stairs, and he could not - would not - did not turn away as she hit the ground.

He was across the floor and the glass was in his hand before he even realised. The alcohol burned on his tongue and he braced his other hand against the cabinet, shuddering. The memory might have been false as glass, but it didn’t change the truth.

Bae. He had to find Bae. He had to make amends to at least one person that he loved, and this time, he couldn’t and wouldn’t ever let go.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Charming was up and about.

Snow was showing glimpses of backbone.

Regina was smiling her sweetest and most poisonous smile.

Rumpelstiltskin was exhausted beyond the telling of it. The nightmares had taken on a different tenor since he had awakened from the curse. He tried to keep a clear head, but night after night, the bottle found its way into his hand as if by magic. 

Sheer blind luck got him through the Boyd affair sober, though he was almost too late to the hospital, nursing the combination of concussion and hangover. He tried to keep away from the liquor cabinet, but as he saw more and more people drifting back into the fairytale relationships, it cut at him. 

Every time he crossed the hall, he imagined sharp rocks and a broken body. Every time he looked at Belle’s chipped cup, once such a bittersweet memory, it didn’t bring back fond recollection but the image of it falling from her dead hand. The two memories were overlapping, and what would have been harmless in one world was like a blade in the other, and vice versa.

It was weakness, he knew, but one night he found himself sitting in the hall, on the damned staircase, bottle in hand and just drank until his vision grew hazy and for at least a moment, he could pretend not to hear the sounds that had haunted him for years.

It was easier in the forest, when he could dismiss the pain from his head when morning came calling. It didn’t work here. The best he could do was to take another mouthful from another bottle, and hope it would be enough to get him through the day.

He hated it.

The memories. The drinking. The reasons. All of it.

He found himself staying at the shop later and later after that. There was nothing alcoholic in the shop, and if he trembled a little more, if his steps were unsteadier, if his shirt was soaking with sweat by the time he got home, it was a start on turning things around.

It was clouding his brain up too much. He tried to avoid Regina as much as possible, for fear of letting something show that shouldn’t have been there. He was losing his grip and if there was one thing Rumpelstiltskin hated, it was being out of control of his fate.

Never more so than when he set the fire at City Hall. No one should have been hurt. He had planned it carefully, and if it had been timed and laid correctly, then everything would have gone as intended. Instead, Regina ended up a martyr, wielding her burned and broken arm like a badge of honour. 

Emma Swan pulled her from the wreckage, but when she turned on Rumpelstiltskin, it wasn’t just with suspicion, but with outright hostility. Someone had been hurt because of his games, she said, and she wasn’t playing anymore.

The result - in the end - was the same: Storybrooke’s newest resident was Sheriff.

The problem was that he needed to keep her on his side, and that was going to be difficult when everything he did seemed to be going wrong. 

He cleared out the liquor cabinet that night. Every drop of the alcohol went down the drain, and that was the biggest mistake he could have made. He had never been more ill in his mortal or immortal life. He couldn’t be seen to be weak, but he wasn’t anywhere near capable of being Mr Gold as much as he needed to be.

He gave in after three days of agony.

The alcohol went down like water given to a man dying of thirst.

It was a fine line, a knife-edge.

He couldn’t give the alcohol up, not right away, but he couldn’t go without it either.

It was all a matter of control. Like the deals.

One bottle in the house at any given time. 

One glass per night, no more, no matter how much it hurt, no matter how bad the nightmares got. Enough so his body wouldn’t shut down in spasms and sweats and shakes, all the unpleasant side affects he found of trying to go cold turkey. 

The nightmares were getting steadily worse. Bae was there too, overlapping with Belle, both falling, both shattering on the stones in scraps of blood and bone. The portal whirled about him. Their voices rang in his ears, screaming coward, as they fell, fell because of him, fell because he was afraid and desperate.

He woke, choking on sobs, every night. Dry, painful, heaving sobs. He didn’t have any tears left, and he had to force himself to stay in his bedroom, stay away from the bottle and the temptation that waited downstairs. He smashed the lamp one night, hurled it across the room, but it didn’t help, not with the pain, nor the need, nor the nightmares.

It was only when he picked up the shattered base and he felt the sharp, exquisite sting as the broken china cut into his hand that he found some other outlet. He knew he was desperate, he always had been able to tell, but he needed his head to be clear, and if dragging broken glass across his skin was a means to an end, if it meant he could put aside the need for the next drink, if he could distract himself with the physical pain, for just long enough…

It was fortunate, he thought grimly, that he tended towards dark clothing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Sheriff was tolerating him.

It was a start.

His head was gradually beginning to clear from the haze that years of alcohol had wrapped around it, and for the first time since the curse, he could think. 

He still had one glass of some spirit or other each night, just one, and if he needed more, he would put his hand across his left forearm and squeeze. Not much, but just hard enough. He kept his left arm bound in bandages at night for exactly that purpose. Every morning, they were bloody, but he was conscious and alert and could think.

He must have looked awful before, because clearly his appearance had changed enough that people noticed. It wasn’t the clothes or the haircut. He had always neatened himself up before going out of the house. It had to be something in his face. His eyes definitely weren’t so bloodshot, though they were still ringed with dark circles. He didn’t look so pale. Maybe that was enough. Or maybe his unsteady gait had been more noticeable than he had believed. 

People noticed the change.

They were a little more wary, almost a little more respectful, as if they had doubted his ability to harm them before, but now? Now, he wasn’t to be crossed. 

He wondered what they would think if they knew he had spent the previous night reopening narrow slits on his arms and dabbing them with vinegar after a particularly bad nightmare. It should have grown easier, but Alexander Gold was still in there, and with his memories came the press of magic to incorporate them as nightmares.

Regina suspected him.

She always had, which was why his punishment had been so carefully selected.

The firebombing of City Hall had been tied to him, and that was as good as raising a flag and admitting that he had woken up. After all, Alexander Gold had no reason to vie with the Mayor. Rumpelstiltskin, on the other hand…

The fact he had done nothing since seemed to calm her suspicions a little, but not enough. She was one of the first to notice the steadiness in his step. She smiled sweetly and said he looked well, said that they should talk, and he remembered a cell, a deal.

“Excuse me, please,” he said with a brief smile, remembering that she was the one who had made him doubt Belle, she was the one who brought him the news, she was the one who had made it his broken and cursed life in this place.

I had nothing to do with that tragedy. 

Her association with you.

Her father sent in clerics to cleanse her soul with scourges and flaying.

She threw herself from the tower. 

She died.

He stepped into his shop, away from her and back into the dark and squeezed his forearm until he wanted to scream. His breath was coming rapid and fast. Scourges and flaying. None of that was his doing. No, he had let her go to that end, but…

Rumpelstiltskin drew hissing breaths between his teeth. 

Her father. 

He couldn’t just kill him. No. That would be too merciful.

In this world, though, where he held all of Storybrooke in thrall, the strands of their debts tangled in his fingers, all he had to do was pull, and take back what was owed to him. He had promised Belle her family and friends would live. 

He had never promised they would live well.

The van was the first thing to be called in, and though it took him a little bit longer, he knew he could get the shop sooner or later too. He didn’t go in person, because he knew if he did, the hell he would unleash on Moe French would leave him locked up.

What he didn’t expect were the events of Valentine’s day. He went to her grave - false, of course, but the intention was there - and laid a cluster of flowers picked from his garden. He wasn’t about to give French any of his custom. 

He returned to the shop afterwards, and spent much of the day sharpening the blades he had in stock and testing their mettle. His arms looked like fresh meat when he was done. He was breathing slow and heavy. He almost felt calm, even though seeing her name carved in stone had nearly driven him to his knees.

He wiped up the worst of the blood, bound his arms and unrolled his sleeves. The cufflinks slid into place neatly, though his hands were shaking more than they had in days. 

It was the grave.

The solid, tangible fact of her demise.

In the forest, he had never seen her body. In Storybrooke, he had only seen imaginings of it. But a grave…

His throat felt tight with grief as he made his way from the shop. It was tempting to avoid his home for the night and take a room in Granny’s Inn, somewhere away from the memories, just for one night. He fumbled with the keys, dropping them as he tried to lock the door behind him, and they fell onto the step. 

Rumpelstiltskin swore, bending to pick them up and as he straightened, he felt the press of metal under his ear, and saw the blurry reflection of Moe French in the glass pane in the door. 

“Open the door and go back inside,” French said, his voice ugly with fury.

With a gun pressing to his head, he had little choice but to comply.

French kicked the keys in after him, and closed the door behind him.

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t like weapons when they were pointed him, especially when he was in a very human and very vulnerable body. The last time he had faced a weapon while living, he had ended up shamed and begging, and the memory nearly froze him to the spot.

Three centuries, and still afraid of being made helpless.

He drew a breath, trying to push down the dread that he might well die here and now. “How can I help you, Mr French?”

The muzzle of the gun was cold against his temple. “You put flowers on Isabelle’s grave,” he said, his voice shaking with emotion. “You killed her, you fucking bastard, and now you’re ruining all I have left. You don’t have the right.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s lips drew back from his teeth. “I didn’t kill her,” he snarled.

Moe French had never really struck him as a violent man.

Ironic, then, that he struck him as a violent man.

The gun moved in a backhand too quick for Rumpelstiltskin to avoid, and he went over backwards, knocking into a display cabinet, the glass shattering around him. He could feel blood in his mouth, running down his chin, and the glass was cutting through his sleeves.

“Cut the bullshit,” French said, standing over him, gun pointing at his head. The man was big and he had a steady hand. “I should have done this years ago.” 

He pulled his leg back and Rumpelstiltskin managed to curl himself enough that the impact to his ribs wasn’t as bad as it could have been. Years of being a target in life served him well, though he still heard at least one rib snap like a wet branch.

“I didn’t kill her,” he repeated, in a bloody gasp.

“You let her go, you bastard!” Another kick caught his bad leg and it felt like fireworks went off behind his eyes.

“You first!” Rumpelstiltskin choked out. 

It was false bravado, but it was all he had left. He groped for his cane, lashed out, but the man caught it and he heard it shrill through the air and raised his arm to block it, the scream catching in his throat at the blaze of white-hot pain. A second blow landed across his upper arm and shoulder, and he tried to crawl back, away, anywhere. 

It didn’t matter that French had a gun.

It didn’t matter that he could be shot like a half-dead fish in a dry barrel.

All he could think of was Bae. If he didn’t get out alive, he would never find Bae, and if he never found Bae, he would have failed both the people he loved. He felt the broken glass slicing into his palms, and rolled to avoid the worst of French’s kicks and blows, and he knew the only chance he had was getting attention from outside.

He pushed himself up on bleeding hand, looking up at the panting French. The man had the gun in one hand, cane in the other, and was staring at him like a madman. No doubt a little bit of Regina’s help had wriggled into his brain.

Rumpelstiltskin’s eyes darted around the shop as he lifted a shaking hand and wiped blood from his dripping lips. He was close to the counter now. There was a display case of lighters there. They all worked. And were close to the display case of shawls. Very flammable shawls.

Somehow, he managed to pull himself onto his feet, swaying unsteadily. His suit was sodden, torn in dozens of places, and he could feel blood dripping from his fingertips. He was in front of the display, and all he needed was to know how to anger a desperate and furious and vengeful father. 

He knew just how to do that, and as much as it pained him to do so, he knew what to say.

“So much fuss over such a little slut.”

Moe’s face went white with rage and Rumpelstiltskin just hoped the fire alarm was working.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He came around to the steady beeping of hospital monitors. It was strange, fuzzy on the edges, and he had a suspicion he should be in a lot more pain than he presently was in.

Rumpelstiltskin forced his eyes open, squinting.

There was no daylight, and the lights were low. It was a private room at least, and he could make out a red and blonde shape in the chair by the bed.

His tongue touched his dry lips. “Sheriff.”

The woman stirred, sitting up at once. She must have been there for some time. “Hey,” she said, dragging the chair closer. “Welcome back.”

He squinted at her. She wasn’t as pristine as usual, her face smudged with soot and her hair in a tangled knot at the back of her head. He could see bloodstains on her clothes as well, but it couldn’t have been hers. Hmm. His then.

“You think I look bad, you should take a look in the mirror,” she said dryly.

He swallowed as much as he could. It ached and he could taste smoke on his lips. “How bad?” he asked hoarsely.

“Several broken ribs,” she said, “At least three. Head trauma, but no fractures. A couple of broken teeth. A cracked forearm. Bruising all over. And God knows how many stitches. Some minor burns as well, but we got you out before the fire took hold.”

The shop.

Rumpelstiltskin closed his eyes and curled his fingers against the bedding. “I don’t feel much pain,” he murmured. It was strange. His body seemed entirely detached from him in a way that reminded him of the pleasant stage of being drunk. The part that came before the vomiting and the shakes.

“Morphine,” Emma replied. She rose from the chair. “You want water?”

He opened his eyes, trying to focus on her. “Please.”

She filled a cup from a pitcher, helping him to drink, and perched on the edge of the bed. He could see cuts and scratches on her hands. Burns as well. “Can’t help noticing there are some cuts and bruises that were there before you had your beatdown,” she murmured.

They had taken his suit, he realised too late. His arms. He met her eyes. “And?”

She shook her head. “Just an observation,” she said. “We got the man who did this. Do you know him?”

He darted his tongue along his lip again, nodded gingerly. “French.”

“Any idea why?”

It was a pointless question, but they both knew she had to ask it.

“His daughter died,” he replied hoarsely. “He blames me.”

“And was it your fault?”

He startled, staring at her warily. “What?”

Emma looked back at him impassively. “You just got beat up by a florist,” she said, “I want to know if he had a real reason or if he was just taking out his frustration on you.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s throat felt tight, but finally, he nodded. “Yes,” he said quietly, “but I never intended to hurt her.”

The Sheriff nodded. “That’s what I figured,” she said. He looked at her in bewilderment and she rose from the bed, setting the half-drunk cup on the cabinet. “I need to get home, but I’ll come back in later today, see how you’re doing.” She glanced down at his arms and he followed her gaze, taking in the neat bandages. Her eyes flicked back to his. “If you need any help sleeping or keeping on top of the pain, you can ask one of the doctors.”

He nodded stiffly, wondering if the doctors would put him under again, somewhere without nightmares, because otherwise, he was in a place where he couldn’t drink and if he even touched his arms, they would know. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

It was only after she left that he wondered if she had waited for him to wake so she could talk to him while he wasn’t as lucid as he otherwise might have been. He tried to remember all he had said, but the morphine was blurring the edge of his memories as well as the pain.

He closed his eyes, forcing aside the memory of the look on French’s face. Had he looked like that when he killed Milah, he wondered. Not that he really cared, but it was an interesting mirror to have held up in front of him. 

He must have drifted back into unconsciousness.

It wasn’t sleep. There were no nightmares, only empty blackness, peaceful and blank.

He roused by pain. Not just the pain of wounds slowly regaining sensation as the effects of the morphine wore off, but the pain of someone putting a hand to his cracked ribs and pressing enough to make his nerves scream.

His eyes flew open, gasps catching in his throat.

“Morning,” Regina said, smiling.

His vision was hazy and he couldn’t focus on her face, whether because of the pain or the drugs, he didn’t know. His breath was hissing between his teeth, sharp and shrill, and he tried to hold onto the pain as a stabiliser.

“Regina,” he gasped. “How nice to see you.”

She sat back, the pressure on his ribs easing. “I would say the same, but we both know that’s not true,” she said. “I heard about your altercation with Mr French.” She tutted, shaking her head. “You kill his daughter, then you take everything he has left? Not very wise, was it? You know loss can make people do terrible things.”

There was an undertone in her voice, dark and bitter, and he knew exactly why.

Of course, Alexander Gold knew nothing of the kind.

“It was an accident,” he said, his jaw aching. He could feel the gaps where two teeth were missing. “And as for his debts… just business.”

“Oh, we both know that’s not true,” she said dismissively. “You wanted to hurt him.”

He feigned ignorance, though frowning sent sharp pain shooting down his jaw and throat. “I don’t know why you would think that,” he said. “I’m a businessman, not some kind of mafia don.”

Regina gazed at him. “You have any number of enemies, Mr Gold,” she said. “A lot of people in town who wouldn’t mind taking a shot at you, if they knew you weren’t as much of a threat as you used to be.”

Rumpelstiltskin’s throat was dry. “Nice of you to say so,” he said. He could feel the inside of his cheek bleeding again, grazed by his cracked tooth, wetting his tongue. “But again, I’m not some syndicate boss.” He breathed slowly, in and out. “I’m just a pawnbroker and landlord.”

“Just a man, some might say,” Regina murmured. “Some people just need a little reminder of who you were. What you did.” She smiled sweetly. “Like Mr French. It would be awful if you found yourself with more enemies, wouldn’t it? All remembering the things you wish they would forget. And when you’re so weak and helpless too. ”

His hands twitched convulsively on the covers of the bed. “What do you want?” he asked, his voice a harsh rasp.

“I think you know,” she murmured.

He met her eyes. “Let’s pretend that I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said tersely.

She lifted her hand to stroke his cheek and he winced as fresh blood ebbed against his tongue. “Your name.”

“Gold,” he replied emphatically enough that his blood spattered her skin. “Alexander Gold.”

Her fingers moved, squeezed and a small, pitiful sound caught in his throat. “Your real name, dear,” she said, her face so close to his he could almost taste her lipstick. 

He stared at her, hating her with every fibre of his being. “Rumpelstiltskin,” he breathed.

Her hand fell away from his jaw and for a moment, there was a flicker of something not unlike fear in her eyes. “I thought as much,” she murmured. She sat back, gazing at him, as if she hadn’t quite believed her suspicions could be true, and now, she wasn’t sure what to do with the information.

She was never very good at planning ahead.

“How long have you known?”

His breathing was still laboured and painful. “You know.”

“Emma Swan.”

So she had worked that much out after all. The curse was on its way to breaking, which meant that soon, all her little puppets would be out of her control. That kind of revelation was inclined to make a person desperate.

He watched her impassively, his hands painfully tight fists on the sheet that covered him.

“I may have some use for you yet,” she said finally. “You know Snow and her Prince have been seeing one another again.” Statement, not question. He inclined his head. “And you know how much I don’t want that happening.”

“Naturally,” he breathed.

She placed her hand on his bandaged forearm. “I want you to resolve that little problem for me,” she said. “I want them apart and I want them miserable.” Her fingers tightened and he ground his teeth together as fire burned up his arm. “I know you know how to do that.”

His chest was rising and falling rapidly, pain stabbing at each cracked rib. “I’ll need time,” he said hoarsely. 

“Of course,” she said, smiling again. “I wouldn’t dream of asking you to do anything while you’re an invalid.” She rose, smoothing her suit jacket. “The minute you step out of these doors, though, I expect to see some clever scheme in motion. If not…” She shrugged elegantly. “Well, we wouldn’t want you to end up back in here, would we?”

He swallowed hard, fighting down a pithy response.

She was right, after all. 

There were few people in town he had not toyed with at some point, and all she would need to do would be to tip their memories one way or the other. She could and would make them think what she needed them to think, and this pathetic moral body of his could only sustain so much damage.

“I’ll come up with something, dearie,” he whispered.

She smiled, all red lips and poison. “Good boy.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He was released four days later.

His plan was put in motion the very same day.

Something tragic would happen.

That was the way he told Regina, discreetly neglecting to mention the specifics. It was one of the facts that had made her a less than satisfying apprentice: no curiosity. The end result was all that she cared about, whether through learning magic or seeing a plan come to fruition.

Mary Margaret Blanchard’s affair with the married David Nolan was big news, but the mysterious disappearance of his wife? That would go through the town like wildfire. The innocent school teacher’s reputation would be shattered. Her lover would doubt her. And in the end, the guilty would be driven from Storybrooke.

Regina loved it, especially the twist of the knife that meant the couple’s daughter would be the very one to destroy them. 

He only implied the possible outcome, though. 

He never made any promises.

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t lie, after all. He told the truth in a very particular way.

Tragic could mean so many things. 

Abduction was a messy business, especially when there were a limited number of places that someone could hide within Storybrooke’s boundaries, but Dove didn’t ask any questions. It was to be gentle, careful, with no damage to be done to Mrs Nolan and no witnesses. He knew the man would be more than capable, and Mrs Nolan would be safe.

It was difficult to maintain so many balls in the air with Regina breathing down his neck, the Sheriff keeping one wary eye on him, people looking at him as a victim for the first time in generations, and all while he was trying to ensure everything went to plan.

On top of everything else, he had lost his shop. A few pieces had survived the fire, but the building was left a shell, gutted entirely by the flames that had taken hold when he had thrown a lit lighter into the dusty pile of shawls. 

The only good thing that had come out of the assault was that the alcohol in his system had started to clear. The craving was still there, the impulse to undo everything with a glass, but Rumpelstiltskin had not controlled himself with deals for centuries to be undone by his failed apprentice’s choice of torment.

The pain, he no longer needed to seek. It was there, waiting, with every step.

Cracked ribs made breathing burn, and by bad luck, his right arm was the one that had been broken, which made leaning on his cane difficult at best. It was easier than using a blade. All he had to do was step a little hard, or lean too much, and his head was clear, crystal-sharp with the clarity of pain driving away the hunger for oblivion.

He was called in by the Sheriff about his assault, and was unsurprised to see French still penned up in the lock-up. Emma closed the door of her office and drew the blinds, which he took as a kindness on her part.

“How you doing?” she asked, as he sat down with a wince.

“Breathing,” he replied. “He’s still here?”

“They’re short on spaces at the big lock-up out of town,” she replied, sitting on the edge of her desk. “We’re stuck with him for now.” Her eyes flicked over him. “I was hoping he’d be gone by the time I called you in.”

His mouth twitched wryly. “I’m not traumatised by the sight of him, if that’s what you were expecting, Sheriff,” he said. It was strange how readily he felt he could unmask himself around her. She was a good person, that much he knew, even if she didn’t believe it.

She folded her arms over her chest. “You know why I needed you to come in?”

He nodded slowly. “The statement. I need to make one.”

“Not need, persay,” Emma said. “But he’s said it was self-defence, after he confronted you about…” She fell silent for a moment. “Well, let’s say he’s telling a different story from the one written all over your face.”

Rumpelstiltskin laughed hoarsely, and felt the pain fan across his ribs. “Oh, I can match that tale,” he said. “Don’t you worry about that.”

Emma sat down behind her desk. “If you want to stop…”

Rumpelstiltskin’s smile was thin and tight. He laid his right hand over his left arm and pressed just enough on aching, healing wounds. “No man has ever done anything that would stop me doing or saying as I please in this town,” he said. “Certainly not that overblown hypocrite.”

It wasn’t as simple as that.

To his frustration, and even embarrassment, his voice faltered. French had not been a silent enemy, and some of the accusations, however twisted by the curse, had a root in truth. He tried to avoid mention of Belle - Isabelle - but she was the anchor of the whole sordid affair.

Rumpelstiltskin’s breathing was unsteady, though he fought to even it out.

The Sheriff didn’t offer useless platitudes or ask if he was okay. Instead, she rose. 

“I’ll get us coffee,” she said. “Black, right?”

He nodded, swallowing hard. His throat burned. 

By the time she returned, he had put his hand to his ribs and pressed until he wanted to scream. Hardly the best choice, as it left his breathing laboured, but better than stumbling out and seeking some kind of drink, or worse, pleading for the black quiet that morphine had brought.

His head had to be clear. It had to be. There was too much riding on his actions for him to be self-indulgent and hide from facts in drunkenness.

She set the cup down in front of him, and returned to her chair. “I know it’s none of my business,” she said in an off-hand voice, “but Archie was going on about post-traumatic stress or some crap like that. Maybe swing by to shut him up?”

It wasn’t an instruction or an order or even a suggestion. She knew he wouldn’t listen to any, so she phrased it as an option to annoy someone else.

Rumpelstiltskin released a shaking breath and picked up the coffee cup. “I hardly think so,” he said. “Wouldn’t want to scare the man.”

“Figured as much,” Emma said. She leaned down and rooted about in the desk. “Here.” She slid box across the counter to him. “You need that more than I do right now.”

He looked at the box. It was some kind of ointment, and he raised his eyebrows. “The doctors were… thorough when they medicated me, Sheriff.”

“Doctors give you what they think you need,” she replied. “That’s what I know you need.” A brief, tired smile crossed her lips. “You know how annoying it is when your sleeve sticks to a burn? This is good for stopping that.” She took a sip of her coffee, watching him. “It works on cuts too.”

It lay there, on the desk between them, like an unexploded grenade as they drank their coffee and she took the remains of the statement. 

When he left the station, all that was left on her desk was the paperwork and an empty cup.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Rumpelstiltskin never professed to control other people’s actions.

Magic could do much, but that was lazy.

It was much easier to gently walk the people to the path you wanted them to take, through implication, suggestion, or even by telling them such things were impossible. Once they were at the path, whether they chose to walk on was their own decision, but if a skilful handler had judged a person well, then they would choose the path the handler wanted them to take.

Rumpelstiltskin was never a people person. He didn’t especially like them or have any use for them, but he had watched them, generations, for so long that he had learned how to read them and anticipate their actions and reactions to any event.

That was what shaped events around Kathryn Nolan’s abduction.

By the time Mary Margaret Blanchard was arrested, French had been dealt with. According to the Sheriff, he had been shipped out to the County lock-up. Rumpelstiltskin knew that was unlikely. It was much more probable that the Mayor had tucked him away in a cabin in the woods for later use.

She smiled a little too much when she brought the D.A. in to interrogate Blanchard. The smile was for him, the caution that his little show better garner the results she wanted, or else the mysteriously vanished French might just be unleashed once more. 

Rumpelstiltskin knew he had to tread carefully.

Mary Margaret was meant to run. That was the plan. Everything was falling apart around her, but it took the visit of David Nolan to push her over the edge. Rumpelstiltskin didn’t know what had been said or done, but when the cell lay empty and the prisoner gone, the relief left him almost breathless. 

The gallant Swan dashed off after her, making up in daring heroics for her parents’ current lack, and Rumpelstiltskin waited there, through the night. It was unnecessary, because he knew Miss Swan was resourceful, but Regina was inclined to impatience.

In the quiet, he went to the filing cabinet, opening them up and searching for the case he knew he should avoid. His hands shook as he found it, lifting it from the drawer. He sat down slowly at the Sheriff’s desk and opened it, closing his eyes at the sight of the pictures taken by the forensic examiner. 

He covered those images with a gloved hand, putting them aside, searching through the rest of the file until he found what he was looking for, the one thing he had never been able to find in his house: a photograph of Belle. It was a formal upper-body shot, with a neat blouse and brooch. She was smiling awkwardly at the camera, but it was her, unmistakeably her. 

Sometimes, he had wondered if she was as lovely as he remembered.

She was. Of course she was. 

He slipped the photograph into the inside pocket of his coat and replaced the file in the drawer, closing it quietly. She was gone, but that didn’t mean he should ever forget her face.

As he sat in the darkness, it struck him that seeing her smile, even just a photograph of it, had eased an ache in his chest that he hadn’t even noticed was there. She always had the ability to make him feel better about himself, his brave Belle, and even now…

He looked up at the sound of clattering footsteps. 

Miss Blanchard stopped dead at the sight of him, panic all over her face.

He nodded to the open cell door and she rushed in, dragging it closed behind her.

Neither of them were surprised when Regina arrived only moments later, smiling and smug, until she saw Mary Margaret sitting virtuously in her cell, as if she had been there all night.

“What is she doing here?” Regina turned on him like a tigress when he showed her out.

He lifted his shoulders slightly. “She came back.”

Regina leaned closer to him, eyes blazing. “You said this was going to work,” she snarled. “That she’d take the key, that she’d go.”

“She did,” he replied placidly, “but it seems Miss Swan is rather more resourceful than we thought.” He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “Fear not, your Majesty. Miss Blanchard is still guilty of murder. You may yet get what you want.”

“Oh, I’d better,” she murmured. “Otherwise, you’ll owe me a pound of flesh.” Her eyes narrowed to dark slits. “Don’t forget, Gold, we had a deal. I want results.”

“Results you shall have.” He inclined his head, smiling just enough, wondering if she would ever learn to pay attention to the details when he spoke to her. She had offered a threat, and all he had promised was to come up with something. Accepting a deal was another matter entirely. “See you at the arraignment.” 

As she walked away, he turned and walked back into the Sheriff’s office.

Miss Blanchard looked pale as death. “I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

He gazed at her. “Don’t go anywhere, Miss Blanchard,” he said. “The Sheriff would hate to have to chase you down again.” She flushed, nodded unhappily. “Don’t worry,” he added quietly, “It’ll all be over soon.”

She looked up at him. “You think so?” she asked.

He nodded. “I know it. You’ll be fine. Trust me.”

She smiled, as if she believed him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Kathryn Nolan’s reappearance sent shockwaves through Storybrooke.

Miss Blanchard was freed at once, for no one could be charged with murder when the victim was walking and talking. 

The Sheriff, on the other hand, was reeling. It wasn’t magic in her eyes. It was a frame-up which had been aimed at her friend. She was confused and furious, and she was spreading it around with a large shovel. 

It wasn’t a shock to Rumpelstiltskin when Sidney Glass was pushed forward to take the blame, but from the sounds of things, the Sheriff didn’t believe a word the man was saying. It was a confession, though, and she had no evidence against Regina. There were whispers that she was even going to try for custody of her child. 

He was content to wait in the sidelines, watch was the Sheriff’s walls were knocked gently aside by her boy. It was amazing what the love for a child could bring out in a person, and Miss Swan’s power was just there, waiting to be tapped into.

His own concerns were more pressing.

He and Regina had only seen each other briefly since Kathryn’s return, as Miss Blanchard signed the paperwork to be freed from her cell. The look Regina had directed at him was laced with venom.

“This is what I want?” she asked in a low, fierce whisper, as they stood side-by-side near the door.

“You asked me to separate them and make them miserable,” he replied evenly. “Which I did. I wasn’t about to kill an innocent woman, not in this world, not when I know Miss Swan would stop at nothing to find the culprit.” He looked at her. “I’m not putting my head in a noose just because you say so.”

She turned on her heel and stalked away, and he knew that was exactly what he had done.

To add to the complications, there was a stranger in town: a young man with dark hair and a wary look. It was ridiculous, foolish even, to hope that he knew who the stranger was. The man ran into him at the diner and had stared at him just a little too long. He was at Miss Blanchard’s liberation party as well. He seemed to be appearing everywhere.

Rumpelstiltskin sought what information he could, but there was little enough of that: a writer, a traveller, August W. Booth. Out of desperation, he went to the source as the party continued, breaking into the man’s room in the inn.

Whoever he was, the man knew about the knife.

Rumpelstiltskin’s breath caught in his chest.

Only Bae had ever known about the knife.

His head swimming with shock, his hands shaking, Rumpelstiltskin made his way home. For the first time in days, if not weeks, he took out the bottle of spirits that he kept in the cupboard in the kitchen. He knew he shouldn’t, not when Regina was on the warpath, not when someone - who may or may not be Bae - with knowledge of the knife was in town, not when he was at his most vulnerable.

The bottle rattled against the glass as he poured a measure.

The kitchen felt too close, too tight, and he opened the back door, stepping out into the cool night air, breathing it in. The glass was cold in his hand, a tempting moment of peace right there, waiting. All he had to do was drink it.

He turned sharply at the sound of a rustle in the bushes.

The Sheriff leapt over one of the lower shrubberies, shoving past him and knocking the glass flying. “Stay here,” she snarled, as she rushed into the house, gun in her hand. He looked after her, too startled to move for a moment. 

Of course, he was never one to do as instructed.

He walked back into the house to see the Sheriff standing by the coat rack, beside the front door. Her gun was upraised, and he was about to ask what she was doing when he heard a key turn in the lock of the front door. No one had a key but him and… Regina.

Rumpelstiltskin stepped back into the shadow of the kitchen units, his heart pounding. 

The man entering his house was little more than a silhouette stretching across the floor, cast by the streetlamps outside, but Rumpelstiltskin recognised him instantly. It was impossible to forget the face of a man who beat seven hells out of you. He had a gun in his hand.

The click of the Sheriff’s gun being cocked sounded deafening. 

“Drop your weapon, French, or I swear to God I’ll put a hole in you,” the Sheriff said quietly. The man started to turn, but she had the muzzle of her gun against his head in a blink of an eye. “Now.”

The gun clattered to the floor and Emma kicked it aside. 

“On your knees, hands on your head.”

It was the work of a moment for her to cuff him. She holstered her gun, and she straightened up, reaching for a light switch. The hall was flooded with light. “Hey, Gold,” she called. “You got anything I can use to bag evidence?”

Rumpelstiltskin emerged from the kitchen a moment later, bringing a couple of plastic food bags with him. He looked warily at French, as the Sheriff took the bags and retrieved the gun and a smaller, black object from the floor. 

“Not that I’m ungrateful,” he said, “but why are you here?”

Emma looked up from tying a knot in one of the bags. “I got a call that French had been seen back in town,” she said with a nod to the man. “I did a sweep and saw him heading this way.”

“And you thought this would be more dramatic?” he said, as she hauled French to his feet.

“Caught in the act,” she replied with a crooked smile. “I would have given you the head’s up, but he was already heading up your path when I saw him.” She held up the two bags. “You see anything familiar?”

The gun was obvious, but the small black key in the other bag was much more so.

He looked up at her. “Regina.”

She nodded grimly. “Looks like you’re in the bad books again,” she said. “Any idea why?”

“Let’s put it another way,” Rumpelstiltskin said wryly, “do you have any idea why not?”

She offered a tired smile and he wondered how long it was since she had really got any rest. Not since Kathryn’s disappearance, at the very least. “Point,” she agreed. “You okay?”

French was scowling at him and Rumpelstiltskin could feel his heart still racing. “Better than I would have been, if you hadn’t paid a call,” he said. “Thank you, Sheriff.”

She nodded briefly at him. “No problem,” she said. “And don’t you worry about Regina. I’ll get her off your back.” She held onto Moe French’s arm. “I’ll get this guy back to the station. You stay out of trouble.”

He nodded, waiting until they were out of sight before he closed and locked the door and leaned heavily against it. Perhaps she would be able to keep Regina from striking at him again, but now, he had other things to worry about. 

He rubbed a hand against his chest. It was aching from the impact of Emma’s body as she knocked him out of the way, and his glass of whisky was shattered on the back step. One glass would have been too many, he knew. The ache in his ribs would do instead.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Regina left him alone.

He didn’t know what Emma said to her, but the feeling of constantly being under scrutiny had vanished. Her eyes on him were gone. If they crossed paths in town, she would nod at him, cold and curt, and wouldn’t even say a word.

It didn’t stop him being on his guard. 

Too many lifetimes of wariness and suspicion weighed heavily on him.

As much as he remained cautious about her, he still turned his attention to the stranger, the young man with the knowledge of the knife. Perhaps he was Baelfire. Perhaps not. He chose to follow him, to see where this stranger might lead.

To Rumpelstiltskin’s surprise, the path led straight to the Nuns. But then, it shouldn’t have been a surprise. Once upon a time, the Blue Fairy had given his son what he needed. Why wouldn’t he turn to that same person now, in the new world?

The Mother Superior smiled mildly and told him as little as she could, but it was enough: a son seeking reconciliation with a father. Rumpelstiltskin’s world felt like it shook beneath his feet. He returned to the car and sat behind the wheel, staring blindly into nothing. 

Baelfire’s face was hazy in his memories, and he tried to remember, tried to see the boy he had lost, tried to imagine how he might look with years on him. Maybe he was just trying to fit the face to the man. Maybe it was that desperate hope, the only good thing he had left.

He squeezed the rim of the steering wheel so hard his fractured arm was lanced with pain.

It was a simple problem: either the man was Bae or he wasn’t.

If he wasn’t, then he could be put aside.

If he was…

Rumpelstiltskin swallowed hard.

How did you approach the child you cast through a portal into a dangerous and unknown world and tell him how sorry you were? It should have been simple. He had imagined so many scenarios, before the curse, where he was brave and confident enough to speak to his son with all the honesty Bae deserved.

None of them were any good.

Rumpelstiltskin pressed his head back against the headrest. Speaking to people wasn’t what he did. Scaring them, yes. Harassing them, yes. Manipulating them, yes. Speaking to them honestly and directly was something he had forgotten.

From nowhere, he remembered Emma’s words.

Hopper.

Of course, it was something about post-trauma nonsense, but the man knew had been alive for decades, offering advice and counsel, making amends for his past sins. Who better to give some kind of guidance?

It still felt like weakness to walk to the man’s door, and took more effort than he believed it would to knock. The thought of talking to someone, to anyone, about his past, about his losses and his mistakes, it made his insides clench up and his throat tighten. The only thing that stopped him turning and walking away was the sharp pain when he made himself lean hard on his cane. 

Hopper opened the door, drawing back in surprise. “Mr Gold.”

Rumpelstiltskin nodded, his bandaged hand still tight on the cane. He wanted to speak and he tried to, but the words caught in his throat.

The man gazed at him, then opened the door a little wider. “Do you want to come in?” he offered. 

“I don’t know,” Rumpelstiltskin said hoarsely. 

Hopper nodded, his expression sympathetic. “It’s a hard step to take,” he said quietly. “Heck, come in and have a cup of tea. If you want to talk about anything, you can. If you just want to sit, that’s okay too.”

Rumpelstiltskin looked down at his hand, at the ring he wore as a reminder of Belle. He had lost her because he let go and was too late to find her. Bae was another matter. Bae was still out there. Bae might be less than half a mile away, if he could just - for once - be brave enough to take the first step. 

He took a shaking breath, stepping across the threshold. 

Hopper was as good as his word. He didn’t press or ask anything. He just made them both a cup of tea, setting one cup in front of Rumpelstiltskin, then sat down at the opposite end of the table with another cup. 

There was a box of tissues on the table, Rumpelstiltskin noticed distantly. How many people came to the man before him and wept? Did he expect everyone to act that way? Or were they only certain cases?

He drank a little of the tea, then raised his eyes to Hopper. “I’m not here about the attack,” he said quietly.

Surprise flickered across Hopper’s face. “Oh?”

“I’ve been attacked before, though I doubt that comes as a surprise,” he murmured. “That part doesn’t concern me.”

“Okay,” Hopper said, setting his own cup down. “So what does concern you?”

Rumpelstiltskin stared at him blankly, then looked at his hand on top of his cane, and squeezed hard enough to gain some clarity. “A son.”

If Hopper had looked astonished before, it was increased tenfold. “A son? I didn’t know you had a son.”

“No,” Rumpelstiltskin agreed quietly. “No one does.” He looked up. “He was lost to me.”

“Lost?” Hopper prompted gently. 

Rumpelstiltskin’s throat tightened and he darted his tongue along his lips. His hand was clenching convulsively on the cane, as if the pain shooting through his arm could remind him of how much worse the loss of Bae was. “I… drove him away,” he said. “It was a… bad parting.”

Hopper nodded. “And it has been weighing on you for a long time.”

Rumpelstiltskin didn’t even need to nod. He turned his cane between his hands, unable to meet Hopper’s eyes. “I’ve been looking for him,” he said in a small, lost voice. “I’ve been looking for so long. I can’t… I… there’s someone, someone who may be…” He shook his head, running a hand over his face. 

“Someone you think is your son,” Hopper finished for him. “Does he look like him?”

“I don’t know,” Rumpelstiltskin whispered. “It’s been so long, I don’t know.” He looked up, so afraid of seeing contempt for not even knowing what his child might look like, but Hopper only nodded sympathetically.

“Has he given any reason for you to think he’s your son?”

Had he? Truly? It was true the man had the picture of the knife, which only they should have known about, and the man was seeking a reunion with an estranged father, but those things could be coincidences.

Once, he had been decisive and certain and adamant he would find his son, know him, walk up to him and embrace him.

Once, he chose a path and followed it to the bitter end.

Once was a long time ago.

He pressed his forefinger and thumb to his eyes. “I don’t know,” he repeated in a whisper. “I don’t know.”

Hopper was silent for a long while. “Have you spoken to this man?” he asked finally. “Or learned anything about him?”

“No,” Rumpelstiltskin replied, his voice unsteady. “I don’t know how I could. I mean, if it is him.”

Hopper nodded solemnly. “And he hasn’t approached you?”

Rumpelstiltskin shook his head. “Our paths have crossed, but not on purpose.”

Hopper gazed at him, his forearms resting on his knees as he leaned forward. “I can’t force your hand or tell you what’s the right or wrong thing to do,” he said. His voice was calm, reassuring. “But it comes down to this: what do you want to do?”

Rumpelstiltskin took a trembling breath and looked up. There was one thing, only one thing, he knew with certainty. “I want to find my boy.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were both lying on the forest floor, covered in blood.

They were both still breathing. 

Rumpelstiltskin’s breath was a wheezing rasp and he clung to his knife like a talisman. 

The man, the liar, was sprawled several paces away, his hand at his throat. The wound wasn’t deep enough to be fatal. Rumpelstiltskin wished it had been. The man had drawn secrets and words that were meant for Bae out of him with lies. In fury, in grief, Rumpelstiltskin had tried to end him. The knife was so close to opening his throat, but the liar had hit him hard in the ribs, folding him like a wet cloth. The knife had slipped against the liar’s throat, but only just.

And so, they lay on the forest floor, bleeding and breathless. 

“I want the curse broken,” the liar whispered. He was pale in the moonlight.

Rumpelstiltskin stared into nothing. The knife was sticky in his hand. It made pain tear through him as he tried to rise, but he didn’t care. He could taste blood on his breath, or maybe he had just bitten through his lip. He didn’t know. He stood, lost and uncertain, swaying on his feet.

“Please,” the liar whispered. “I can help you.”

Rumpelstiltskin looked down at him, as if he was seeing him for the first time. “You’re a liar,” he said quietly. “Why should I believe anything that comes out of your mouth?”

“Because I’m dying,” the liar said, his voice shaking. “You want the curse broken. I need magic to survive. I can help her to believe, and I need to live long enough to do that. I can do it, for both of us.”

“You’ll help her believe.” Rumpelstiltskin’s voice was dull, flat. Yes. If the man could lie so well, they could make anyone believe anything. Even Emma Swan. He watched the man scramble upright, backing away, out of reach. He felt tired, too tired, to move after him, to finish him. Tired and hurt and weak.

“All she cares about his getting her son.” The liar was holding out a hand, a trembling hand, as if they had a pax, as if they were allies. “I need her to come back to me. To put her back on the right track.”

All she cares about is getting her son.

Rumpelstiltskin wondered if the man before him realised just how foolish he sounded, speaking of right tracks. Emma Swan was born of the power of love. If anything was going to break the curse, it was her son. The love of a child was the most powerful, purest forms of true love. Let him try to push Emma back towards a mission. If he succeeded, all was well. If he failed, there was still time for him to die slowly and painfully.

He didn’t speak, but he didn’t need to.

All he needed to do was turn and walk away, letting the man live. 

His car was nearby, and he sat there, silent, until the night started giving way to the day.

He didn’t know how he managed to drive home. He didn’t really care. He found himself in his hallway, mud on his shoes and blood on his hands, and he didn’t care. The knife was abandoned in a drawer, and he found the sealed bottle of bourbon he had left as a silent challenge to himself in the kitchen.

His chest was aching, from the man’s blow to his ribs, from the release of grief, from the pain of disappointment, but it wasn’t enough, not nearly enough at all.

Rumpelstiltskin stood at the kitchen counter and poured a glass. His hands were sticky and shaking and he could feel the grief gathering again. Do I even look like him at all? Did he? Didn’t he? Rumpelstiltskin didn’t know. Didn’t know his own son. Didn’t know his child, his flesh and blood, the person he had fought so hard to find.

How could he know? How could he recognise him? How could he be sure, and not risk the same shock, betrayal, deception, and pain over and over and over?

He downed the glass, choking on it as the sob rose to meet it. The glass clattered against the counter and he jerked his hand, knocking it to shatter on the floor. His hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle and he took one mouthful, then another.

The daylight poured in through windows and doors, and he looked around at his worthless house full of useless trinkets that had never belonged to him. The only thing he had ever valued in his life were gone, one shattered on the rocks, one lost in this foolish, cruel world.

He looked down at his cane, then lifted it and brought it about in an arc, smashing a vase that stood on a counter. Shards splintered across the floor, and he looked down at them. Perhaps it had once belonged to someone, but now, they had lost something.

He took another mouthful from the bottle, closed his eyes and tasted the way it burned down his throat. There were tears on his face, and lives around him cursed and oblivious and all he had left were scraps of his child’s clothes and a cup that his dead lover had chipped.

The bourbon wasn’t going to be nearly enough to dull the ache, but it would be a start.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“Gold!”

Someone was shaking his shoulder. 

“Hey! Gold!”

Rumpelstiltskin stirred, wincing as pain shot through his temples as the light hit his eyes. It was too bright and he brought an arm up to shield his face. There was a twist of dread that someone had found him vulnerable, but it was muffled by the comforting warmth of alcohol clouding his system.

Gods.

If he was thinking like that again, he was in trouble.

He lowered his arm in spite of the pain and found the Sheriff crouched over him, a worried look on her face. “Miss Swan?” he said hoarsely, his mouth dry. His tongue felt thickened and swollen, his lips parched.

She helped him to sit upright and it took him a moment to realise he was on the bathroom floor, and was down to his shirtsleeves. The room reeked of alcohol and vomit and there was blood on the floor and staining the toilet.

“What the hell happened?” she asked, searching his face. “You look like hell.”

He pressed his hand to his forehead. “Bad day,” he said, wincing.

She rose and he heard the rush of water, the rattle of medicine bottles, and she crouched back down, pressing a glass of water into one hand and a couple of Tylenol into the other. He took them, and she watched him intently as he forced the water down.

“What are you doing here?” he asked finally, when the glass was empty.

“That doesn’t matter right now,” she said. “Did someone come after you again? Your house is a wreck.”

Rumpelstiltskin stared at her. His recollections of the night before were hazy at best, after the encounter with the stranger, but he could remember smashing a vase, and then seeing so many other things that meant nothing to him.

He struggled to rise, and she caught his arm, helping him up. Had he any dignity or pride left, he would have pulled away, but he had nothing. His cane was sticky with alcohol and there was blood crusted on the handle, but he held onto it nonetheless, and stumbled out into the hall.

She wasn’t exaggerating. 

“Long story,” he said quietly. “Nothing to do with anyone else.”

The Sheriff nodded. “I’ve had those days,” she said. He looked at her doubtfully. “Okay, not quite this bad, but pretty bad.” She looked him up and down. “Are you going to be okay, if I leave you here on your own?”

“I’m a grown man, Sheriff,” he said, though he knew he was leaning harder on his cane that he would really have liked. “I don’t need a minder.”

“No offence, Gold,” she said wryly, “but I found you passed out on your bathroom floor, covered in your own blood and vomit, in a house that looks like a wrecking crew went through it.”

He would have nodded, but his headache was growing worse by the moment. “Some rest is what I need,” he murmured. He frowned, looking at her. “But you still haven’t told me why you came here.”

She shook her head with a quick, too-bright smile. “Don’t worry about it. You have your problems, I have mine.” She glanced around again. “Do you have someone who could help you clean this place up?”

Rumpelstiltskin braced his left hand against the wall. His head was swimming again, but she didn’t need to know that. “It’s my mess,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.” He inclined his head to her. “Thank you.”

She searched his features, as if she wanted to ask him something. If she had come to him, if she hadn’t expected to find him in trouble or arrest him for his assault on the man, then it had to be something for her, and as that man had said, she was only interested in her son.

“I’m afraid I won’t be of much use to you at present,” he added, when she didn’t speak at once, and that quick, shaken smile flicked over her lips again. “I’m… not at my best.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she said again. “Like I said, you have your problems, I have mine.” She headed for the door, but paused there, looking back at him. “Drink as much water as you can. It’ll clear it faster. And eat something, even if you don’t want to.”

Rumpelstiltskin drew in and released a shaky breath. “I’ll do that,” he said. “Good luck on your business, Miss Swan.”

She nodded curtly, uncertainly, and stepped out of the door, closing it behind her.

He managed to hold himself upright for three long breaths, then his legs folded beneath him and he sank to sit amid the shattered china and cracked glasses. His head was throbbing sharply and he put his hand over his eyes. Days weaning himself off the drink had been shot to pieces, and he felt worse than he had in months. Miss Swan was right. He needed to eat and drink to push back the worst of the after-effects.

He sat for a moment, then struggled back to his feet and to the kitchen. It was the only room that had been left undamaged for the most part, and he sagged into a chair. She had come to him for help, and since he had been useless to her, maybe she would go to Booth. Maybe he could make her believe. He filled a glass, holding it as steadily as he could, and forced himself to drink. Maybe she would listen. Maybe the curse would break.

Or maybe - and he knew what was more likely - Regina would fight back.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He kept to himself for two days, tidying up the chaos that his drunken grief had unleashed. It looked like he had smashed anything that held no meaning for him, and he was aching after two days of putting things back in order.

It was a distraction and a welcome one at that. 

It did little to ease the headache or the pain in his healing bones, but it kept his thoughts occupied. By the time night fell, only the very worst nightmares could rouse him from his exhausted sleep. 

Early on the morning of the third day after his encounter with Booth, he had just carried another sack of broken glass and china out to the trashcan in the back yard when his home was intruded on again.

He entered the back door to see a shadow, movement in the living room.

Out of habit, he kept a gun in the drawer near the front door, but if someone was in the room, they would see him before he could arm himself. Instead, he took down a knife from the magnetic rack, and made his way through as quietly as he could.

A waft of perfume reached him before he could see the intruder’s face, and he knew who it had to be.

“Your Majesty,” he murmured, stepping into the room, cane in one hand, carving knife held casually in the other. He stopped dead. She was standing at the empty china cabinet, and the only surviving piece was resting in her hands. “Please put that down,” he said sharply. “Now.”

Regina set the cup, Belle’s cup, down with a dark look at him. She didn’t seem her usual, gloating self. “Been doing some spring-cleaning, Rumpel?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “What do you want?”

She turned to face him, folding her arms over her chest. “My tree is dying,” she said abruptly. “Why?”

“How should I know?” he asked, making his way over to the couch and sitting down. His knee was protesting all the work he had been doing and he rubbed it slowly. “As I recall, you didn’t let me anywhere near the thing, did you, dearie?”

She stalked over to one of the chairs, spreading her hands along the back. “I think this is all down to your little guard dog,” she said, a sneer curling her lip. “Your precious little Miss Swan.” He looked up at her impassively. “Can it be stopped?”

“To stop it, you would need magic,” Rumpelstiltskin murmured, gazing back at her. “As you may have noticed, we’re a little short of that around here.”

Regina bared her teeth. “I know you, Rumpel. You found a loophole in the curse to free yourself. You have to know something.” Her nails were sinking into the back of the chair. He watched them for a moment. She always did give away her anxieties so much with such little gestures. “Tell me what I can do.”

“Magic comes at a price,” he reminded her, a lesson she had never taken to heart. “Maybe the price for keeping Miss Swan from her destiny is to give her what she wants?”

Regina flinched. “She wants Henry,” she snapped. “And she will never take him from me, do you hear me?” Her eyes blazed at him. “You built this curse. You have to know some way to sustain it.”

“Give me a reason to do that,” he replied, running his fingertip along the scrollwork of his cane. “I know you don’t keep deals, your Majesty.” He met her hostile eyes, his lips curling in a tight, bitter smile. “You could promise me everything and I would never believe you.”

“You would rather stay cursed than help me?” She laughed in disbelief.

He leaned back in his seat. “I’ve been cursed by worse and more powerful creatures than you, your Majesty,” he murmured. “Storybrooke is hardly the hell you imagine it to be. I can tolerate it a little longer, until Miss Swan does what she was born to do.” He inclined his head with a slight, polite smile. “I have nothing I can give you, and if I did, I wouldn’t.” He drew and released a calm breath. “If you want to defeat her - without killing her - you’re going to have to find the means on your own.”

“You don’t want me for an enemy, Rumpel,” Regina said, her expression ugly.

“Oh, you’re telling me we’ve been friends all this time?” he said, with more bite in his tone than he had managed for weeks, months. “Tell me, your Majesty, did you enjoy playing with my memories? Adding your… personal touch to them?”

Her lips drew back from her teeth in a snarl. “Now, you’re being petty? After everything you did to me, I think we’re even, Rumpel.”

He rose, crossing the floor. “You took Belle from me,” he said, his voice little more than a snarl. She looked startled at his words, drawing back a step. “I never took anything from you like that. We will _never_ be even.”

“After all that time, you finally learned to love,” she sneered, shaking her head, but it lacked her usual venom. One hand was still resting on the back of the chair and she tugged at the fabric. “What if I could bring her back for you?”

“Magic can do much,” he said sharply, “but not that. Get out of my house. Now.”

Regina’s eyes narrowed, then spun and strode out.

Rumpelstiltskin watched her go and sank down into the nearest chair as soon as she was out of sight. 

The temptation to strike out at her was rising, whether with magic or with words, but she had to believe he was broken by all the years of the curse. The fact that Emma Swan felt the need to protect him made him look weak, and as much as he hated to be weak, it was useful. 

He was broken, that could not be denied, but not as completely as Regina wanted to believe. There was enough left whole within him to keep his eyes on his goal: to get what he needed to find Bae once the curse broke.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Emma’s day had come.

She was the Sheriff no more.

When he opened the door, she stood there as the Saviour.

Her boy lay insensate in the hospital. His adoptive mother had found the means to keep Miss Swan from being a problem, but as was always the case, magic chose the price to be paid. The price to keep the curse intact turned out to be the very thing to break it. 

Rumpelstiltskin had eyes in the hospital, and had heard almost as soon as the boy was taken in. If anything was going to drive Miss Swan to believing, it would be a threat to her son, and if Regina had resorted to magic, the only way she knew how to get anything she wanted, then a curse would be to blame.

He gazed at her for a long moment. “Is that the look of a believer, I see?” he murmured, ignoring Regina who was standing anxiously by her shoulder. 

“Regina says you can help us,” she said. Her hands were twitching by her sides, and he knew just how much it went against her instincts to ask for any kind of assistance. They were alike in so many ways, he and Miss Swan.

“That I can,” he said, turning and limping into the house. Few things had survived the fire at the shop, but swords were hardy things, especially swords such as Charming’s. He had it laid upon the dining room table and he stood by one of the high-backed chairs. “True love, Miss Swan. It’s the most powerful magic of all.”

“So I’ve been told,” she said, her arms folding tightly over her chest. “Do you have any?”

Rumpelstiltskin looked beyond her shoulder at Regina, then smiled, turning his gaze back to Emma Swan. “I do.”

“What?” Regina snarled. “You said you had no magic.”

“No, dearie,” he said, without looking away from Emma. “I told you I had nothing that could help you. This is something different.” He took a step towards the Saviour, who was looking more and more shaken by the moment. “From strands of your parents’ hair, I created the most powerful potion in all the realms, and when the Dark Curse was formed, I placed a single drop on the parchment, a little… safety valve if you will.”

“My parents…” Emma’s eyes widened. “That’s why I’m the Saviour? Because their true love created the potion and…” Her voice trailed off, as the revelation sank in. 

“Yes, and you,” he murmured. 

“Where is this potion?” Regina demanded, uncaring of the shock that had left Miss Swan reeling.

His eyes flicked to Regina’s face. “Tell me, is our dear friend still in the basement.”

She paled. “You left it with her?”

Rumpelstiltskin smiled slightly. “Not quite,” he said. With his free hand, he indicated to the sword on the table. “You may need this, Miss Swan, unless your powers of persuasion are particularly compelling.”

Emma steadied herself on the back of one of the chairs. “A sword?”

“Your father’s,” he said quietly.

Her eyes widened and she sagged down in the chair. “My father’s?” she echoed. Her hand was trembling as she reached out and wrapped her hand around the grip. When she looked up, he could see Snow White and Charming looking back at him. “What do I have to do?”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The egg was trembling beneath his hand.

He wasn’t sure if the shakes were from the lack of drinking he had done or the nerves for what he was about to do. Regina and Emma’s response didn’t bother him. They had more to concern them: their son, his fate, and the breaking of the curse.

Rumpelstiltskin took a breath and tried to keep his hands steady, the lock pick twisting inside the tiny lock on the front of the egg. It had taken a please to make Regina subdue herself, and as soon as he had the egg, he had retreated from the library to his car, racing back to his house to open it.

The fire at the shop had destroyed almost everything useful, and his lock-picking skills were rusty from years of disuse. His heart was pounding wildly and he could feel the sweat running down his brow, but didn’t dare to lift his hands away until he heard the click of the lock. The egg fell open before him.

The bottle was nested within, shimmering and bright. It felt like a tiny heartbeat of power in his hand when he picked it up in sweat-slick fingers. 

“Good,” he whispered. “Good.”

It almost fell from his hand when there was a clatter in the hall.

He fumbled, stabilising it, and thrust the bottle into his pocket.

No one was meant to come after him, especially not Emma or Regina. Had his son been in hospital…

He glanced towards the back door, his heart racing faster still. He could probably make it out the door before the assailant reached him, but he paused when he heard a small, distressed sound like someone in pain. No attacker would have made a sound like that.

Cautiously, he approached the hall.

A ragged little creature was on its knees on the floor. It had tripped over the coat rack and fallen heavily from the look of things. It was cradling a wrist to its chest. It looked up and Rumpelstiltskin forgot how to breathe.

Kneeling in the half-light of the hall, her face pale, her eyes as blue as he remembered, Belle looked up at him. “I-I’m sorry,” she stammered, scrambling back. She looked like a beggar, an urchin, clothed in rags. “I-I-I fell.”

She fell.

She died.

He stared blankly at her. “How are you here?” he asked, his voice hoarse. “You’re not meant to be here.”

She got to her feet, still holding her wrist. “A-are you Mr Gold?”

“I am,” he whispered, reaching out to lean against the doorframe. 

She was dead.

In every world, she was dead.

Everyone believed it. He did. Her father did.

He had checked. He had searched everywhere. No trace of her could ever be found.

But she was here, she was standing here, looking paler and thinner, and never as he could have imagined her. In his mind, she was always flush with life or broken in death. She wasn’t this strange, ragged woman somewhere in between.

She looked at him uncertainly. He was a stranger to her. She wasn’t Belle, but she wasn’t Isabelle either. “I was told to find you,” she said, “and to tell you Regina locked me up.” She looked at him, so lost, so bewildered. “Does that mean anything to you?”

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to step into the hall and approach her. If he touched her, if his hand swept through her like a ghost as it had so many times before when he dreamed, if she wasn’t really here…

His fingers brushed her shoulder, the coarse coat, and he could smell the reek of chemical soap, stale sweat, and the sterile bitterness of hospitals. That’s what she was wearing, hospital clothing. That was where she must have been.

He couldn’t draw his hand from her. It felt like if he let go…

He had let go before. He couldn’t again.

“Why were you sent to me?” he asked. No one would ever send anyone to him, not if they truly wished them well. 

She looked at his hand, then up at him, wary. “I was told you’d protect me,” she whispered.

His heart wrenched in his chest and he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. She was small and shaking and cold, but she was alive, and that was more than he had believed possible. He had magic in his pocket and his true love in his arms.

“Oh yes,” he whispered, his fingers curling in her matted and tangled hair. “I’ll protect you.”

She stiffened, shivering again, and drew back. “I-I’m sorry,” she said. “Do I know you?”

Rumpelstiltskin wanted to weep. If she didn’t even remember him as Alexander Gold, he dreaded to think of what nightmares had been thrust on her as false memories. “No,” he said, his hand slipping to rest on her shoulder. “Not really, but I’ve been told about you, love, and I’m going to look after you.”

A small, tentative smile curled her lips. “Th-thank you,” she said.

He searched her face. “There’s something I need to do,” he said, “something that will keep us both safe. Will you come with me?”

She nodded with that same, shaky smile. “I don’t want to be on my own,” she confessed, and he had to take her small, cold hand in his.

“You won’t be on your own,” he promised. “Not as long as I can help it.” 

She didn’t hold onto him, but she let him hold her and lead her out to the car. Together, they drove towards the forest, and he offered his hand again as she climbed out of the car. Her small fingers curled around the side of his hand, and he never wanted her to let go, not this time, not after everything.

It wasn’t much of a walk, for which he was thankful, but Belle was breathless beside him, and as guilty as he felt, he knew he had to push her onwards. In Storybrooke he was weak, but with magic, he would be able to find Bae and protect her. The magic had to be cast into the well. It was so much more important now. 

They were only a dozen paces from the well when she stopped in her tracks.

“Wait,” she breathed.

“We’re almost there,” he said, though he stopped, startled, when her limp little hand turned in his and her fingers laced between his. He turned and looked at her, and the blankness was gone from her eyes. His heart thundered again, and he felt weak, breathless. “Belle?”

She nodded, tears bright in her eyes. “It’s me.”

He had her in his arms in a heartbeat, holding her fast. He didn’t want to let go, he didn’t want to ever see her walk away from him again. “Belle,” he whispered. “Gods, Belle…” His fingers were in her hair, and at her back, and she had her arms around him too, and was holding him just as tight. “I thought you were dead. I thought you were gone.”

Her fingers smoothed his hair gently. “I knew she would have told you some lie,” she said, though she drew back enough to look him in the eyes. “But that doesn’t tell me why you’re taking me hiking in the woods.”

He darted a tongue along his lip. “Do you trust me, Belle? To protect you?”

“Of course,” she said, lifting a hand to touch his cheek. He trembled at the contact. She was always so brave, so strong, and even now, when she didn’t know the world they were in, barely knew where she was, she was still brave. “What do you need to do?”

His hand groped blindly in his pocket and he touched the bottle. “I need to find magic,” he said. He saw the emotions war across her face, knew she was remembering that last morning in the dungeon, when he cast her out. “Belle, if you’re to be safe…”

“It’s not the only reason, is it?” she asked quietly.

He hesitated, then shook his head.

Her hand slipped back into his. “And you’ll tell me?”

“Soon,” he whispered. It was too much now, to think of finding Bae so soon after finding that Belle was alive. If she was, then it was possible that he was, and if he was, then the magic would be so much more important. “Please, Belle.”

She searched his features, then nodded. “I trust you.”

He was startled to realise there were tears on his face.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He sat up with a cry, his chest tight.

The bed was empty.

He was alone again.

Rumpelstiltskin groped blindly for the lamp, but his hand was shaking so much it knocked it from the bedside cabinet. It fell with a thump, but didn’t break.

The bedroom door opened.

“Rumpel?”

He turned sharply towards the door. Belle. She was there. She was standing in the doorway, and she had a cup in her hands. She had just gone for a drink. A drink. That was all. He laughed shakily. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he said, forcing his voice to steadiness. “Just a dream.”

She put on the overhead light. “No,” she murmured. “That sounded like a nightmare.” She approached the bed, setting down her cup and sliding back into the bed beside him, offering him her arms. It felt like weakness, pathetic, feeble, but he still sank back into the bed, to her, and let her hold him. “What happened?”

“I couldn’t protect you,” he whispered. The images had been clear, sharp, bloody, deadly. As terrible as the nightmares of the past had been, now the terrors of the future were gathering in their place. Her face, Bae’s.

She kissed his brow, stroking a hand through his hair. “I can protect myself too, you know,” she said softly. “I’m not helpless.” He felt her smile against his forehead. “After all, I’m not afraid of you, am I?”

He lifted his head to look at her. “Belle, I’ve done terrible things…”

“Dark One,” she reminded him. “That doesn’t suggest good deeds.”

He sat up a little straighter, away from the softness of her, from her comfort. They had talked some of the way back from the forest, and as much as he wanted to go after Regina for hurting her, he couldn’t bear to let her out of his sight, not now, not yet. Not when the image of her shattered on the rocks was still so fresh in his memory. 

Soon, he told himself, when the nightmares receded, when he could keep himself from touching her to remind himself that she was here and real and alive, when he felt more like he had before, then vengeance would be done.

Now, though…

Now, he had her close to him, and now, they could go and find Bae together. She would understand that. He hoped she would. He ran his hands, trembling again, over his face. Bae was his son. If she didn’t understand, if she didn’t want to know, if she didn’t care…

If he had to leave her behind, choosing his son over her…

That was why the truth had caught in his throat. That was why he had said almost nothing about his past in the hours since her memories returned. She knew his secrets, his frailties, as she always had, but Bae was his one secret, his one weakness, his one private treasure that no one knew anything about. 

She laid her hands on his shoulders. “Rumpel,” she said softly. “What’s wrong?”

He turned, looking at her, wondering if it would be the last time he would see her, if he would have to turn her away again. “I owe you a story,” he said, lifting a hand to touch her cheek. His fingers shook so much and he wished he could steady himself with a drink. “I need to tell you about my son.”

Belle slipped her arms around him. “Tell me everything,” she said softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He released a trembling breath. “You might…” he whispered.

She smiled, her head resting on his shoulder. “I love you, Rumpel. No matter what you’ve done in the past, for better, for worse, I’m here with you.” She met his eyes. “I love you.”

He stared at her, then hugged her tightly. “I love you too.” Maybe she did love him. Maybe it would be enough. Maybe she would stay after all. His voice broke, and in shaking bits and pieces, he told her his tale.


End file.
